Didn't I Never Say?
by LadyDorian
Summary: "There are never any words to describe the two of them, nothing fitting enough for whatever they are to each other." **RxM songfic, some kissing, no sex**


******Disclaimer**: I do not own _Rick and Morty_, I just quote it obsessively at inappropriate times. BALL FONDLERS!

Songfic prompt from Tumblr. The song given was "Little Lion Man" by Mumford & Sons (yeah, laugh it up, Rick), but I kind of combined it with Bloc Party's "Sunday." So I guess that makes this a double songfic? I'm sorry, I don't really know what a songfic is, and I'm probably sure I've done it wrong...but anyway, here it is. It's too visceral and rambling, but I guess that's what I'm into at the moment.

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**Didn't I Never Say?**

_I've really fucked it up this time_, he tells himself. Though, is tonight really different from any other time? Infinite realities, infinite possibilities, yet he always manages to fuck things up. It's the only constant in his life, the only attribute that sticks—Rick Sanchez the Colossal Fuck-Up. He reaches for the nearly empty bottle beside him, brings it to his lips and sucks down the rest, but it's not enough. It's never enough. It only dulls things for a moment, before the guilt comes rushing back, an expanding universe of all the things he's destroyed, all the lives he's hurt—his wife, his daughter, the grandkids he barely knows. And he wants to hit the ground running, feels his feet unintentionally tapping on the floor of the spaceship, guns the engine like he's trying to escape something on his tail, though he knows it's all useless, and sometimes—just sometimes—he wishes he had installed that self-destruct button. He looks to the passenger seat, at the trembling ball curled up beneath his lab coat, the kid who hadn't spoken a word since they'd careened out of the spaceport with a dozen fighter ships behind them, who hadn't whined in terror like he normally did, who wouldn't even return the high-five he'd offered after they made their getaway. It's far too quiet, and Rick knows he's fucked up yet again. He knows the kid isn't asleep; he can hear his ragged breaths, the occasional sniffle. He's not nearly drunk enough for this shit. He briefly considers snatching back his coat, figures there must be enough left in his flask to tie him over until they can make it back to Earth—45 minutes, an hour tops, maybe? But his hand freezes just above the center console. Hasn't he done enough damage already?

_It was a heavy night._ But then again, they all were. All the same—just another scheme, another heist, another life or death situation they'd been able to wriggle out of, another fucking _adventure_. Morty thinks he must have read the definition of adventure wrong, because this shit—_this shit_—this was no fucking adventure. _The Magic School Bus_ went on adventures. Tintin went on adventures. Morty just went on psychotic escapades with his mad scientist grandfather—nothing at all like the dreams of his childhood. He lifts his head from his knees and stares at the grey door, the curved glass above, pulling the coat tighter around him, swallowing the stench of alcohol and cologne and sweat that's become so familiar to him. The grumbling behind him doesn't matter. Nor does the clink of bottles or the way the ship tilts as Rick tries to drunkenly steer. _Nothing matters_, he tells himself, the moment before the lump catches in his throat, and he realizes how much he sounds like Rick. Fingers slide down his arms, ghosting over the bruises and scrapes, memories of the times he's been hit, or shot at, or fallen while scrambling to catch up with Rick, to not be left behind. _And that was just tonight_. He knows how true these thoughts are, how little he means to the asshole in the driver's seat. Morty feels the sting of tears in his eyes, the anger rising to meet them. No matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to hate Rick. Because he's not like Rick, is he?

Why should this all fall on him? Rick rifles through the trash surrounding his seat, one hand haphazardly steering the ship. _Empty bottle, empty bottle, used rubber_. He gives up and turns back to the wheel, tries to calm the jostling wave he'd set in motion. "Heh—" he laughs nervously, isn't sure what else to do, "—if—if this ship is AAAUURRGH-rockin', don't come a-knockin', eh, Morty?" But Morty doesn't make a sound. _Who the fuck does he think he is?_ Rick regrets tossing the boy his coat, tells himself he only did it so he wouldn't have to see him curled up like a scared fucking cub. It wasn't pity or love—Rick Sanchez didn't feel those things. Not anymore. _Does he think that—that—that he's the only one with problems?_ Rick wills his gaze away from the white lump beside him, chants _don't look don't look don't look _over in his head, even tries desperately to focus on the stars outside, but they're light-years away, and in the end it's just the two of them together in this ship, like it always is. And that only stokes his rage.

There were others, Morty knows. He doesn't need to ask—doesn't _want_ to ask—doesn't know if he can listen to the lies without tearing his hair out in frustration. He isn't the first Morty, probably won't be the last. He's as expendable as those empty bottles clattering around in the back of the ship. Rick laughs, calls his name, but Morty blocks him out. _It's just his way of coping_. Everything was just a fucking coping mechanism for Rick. Just a way to blow off steam. Whatever he's done with his life, whatever it is he's trying to do, Morty can tell he doesn't have all the answers. And for a person like Rick, that's worse than any physical torture. The atmosphere in their bubble presses down on Morty, makes him gasp for breath. He feels like he might puke, hopes he does, if only to provide an excuse for his tears. _Why do I keep making excuses for him? Why should I?_ He doesn't want to care so much; he wishes he could be more like Rick. The second that thought leaves his head, he wishes he could take it back.

Rick loathes his grandson right now. He imagines what must be running through that brat's head, convinces himself he doesn't care. _What the fuck does he know about anything?_ Rick seethes, glaring at the sniveling mess of a child. He wants to ruin him. He wants to rip the blinders from his eyes, tear down the magic and wonder and show him how fucked up the world really is. How all the fascination and excitement won't keep this universe from trampling all over his dreams. How he'll always be scrambling to fix the problems he's created, but he'll still manage to fuck everything up because he's too damaged to do any good. He wants to spit in his face, to scream about how pointless things are, how he'll never achieve his goals, how happiness and comfort are the shit this world shovels in the mouths of fools like him, and it's not even worth putting on a brave face anymore because feeling _nothing_ is so much better than trying to feel _anything_. He wants. He _wants_. He wants to break him like he'd been broken. He'd be far better off for it. Rick thinks idly of the 'Free Replacement Morty' coupon hidden away in his sock drawer, wonders if it's time to move on, if anything better is waiting for him elsewhere. He asks himself why the stars seem so blurry all of a sudden, doesn't seem to notice how tightly he's been gripping the wheel.

If Rick leaves tomorrow, Morty thinks he may have a shot at resuming a normal life. Thinks of how he should be at home right now, pretending to study on a Sunday night, worrying about math tests and girls and not about Rick abandoning him in some godforsaken dimension if the situation arose. He should just do it, just tell Rick to get the fuck out, that they were better off without him. Should just shove the 'Free Morty' coupon in his face and slam the door. He could have done it a hundred times over, but…but…There's no reason, no explanation for the sobs that shake his entire frame, that echo throughout the interior of the ship. He hopes Rick hears him, hopes he feels _something_, but knows from experience not to get his hopes up too much. Rick may be an asshole, but Morty only has himself to blame. From the moment this stranger appeared in his life, introducing himself as "grandpa," and towing along several boxes of odd junk and a new perspective on things, Morty was hooked. Through all the nightmarish shit, the death and destruction, every horribly immoral act Rick had committed, Morty had stood steadfast. Whenever Rick barged into his room at the crack of dawn, blubbering on drunkenly before passing out on his bed, Morty always made a space for him. He never complained about how awful Rick smelled the next morning, or how his snoring kept him awake all night, or how he wished more than anything that just once, when Rick's arm flopped across his body, it happened when he was awake and sober. Morty's heart feels as if it's about to beat out of his chest. His throat is clogged with a concoction of mucus and emotion. He loves this asshole too much; doesn't know how to stop loving him. And it hurts more than anything Rick could ever put him through. Morty doesn't want to feel anymore. He wants to be numb, drunk. He reaches into Rick's coat pocket and closes his fingers around the flask. He hates himself.

He hates himself. He promises that this awful pang of sympathy will pass, that he'll forget all about it in a moment, like every other bad memory. But he just can't drive those cries from his mind. No…how could he wish something so cruel upon someone he lov…he _cares_ for? He hates himself for that—for being such a jealous prick. Morty sits there, sobbing uncontrollably, and Rick can no longer ignore all the pain he's caused the boy. He remembers other Mortys— how they felt, how they tasted, how they'd cried—how selfish he was, always thinking of himself and never the hearts he'd stepped on. After each time, each jump, he told himself he would change, that he would break the cycle he'd started long ago. He tells himself he should leave right now; this Morty doesn't need to end up a broken shell of a man like him. He doesn't need to lose his sense of wonder, the last strands of his compassion. Rick can cope with the demons of his past, but to see Morty fall like that…_Fuck_, he's pathetic. Such fucking garbage. He knows what he should do. But Rick will never change. He'll keep taking and taking until there's nothing left. He wants to wrap his arms around Morty, to tell him it's not his fault, it was _never_ his fault. That Rick doesn't know how to be anything other than a fuck-up. But he can never find the words. He's afraid that whatever comes out will just make things worse. So he vainly wipes at his tears, staring silently into the blackness of space. He knows how much is out there, yet can't help but feel overwhelmed by the loneliness of it all. Rick slows the ship to a near halt, then cuts the engines; he turns and reaches out for the boy beside him. They could float out there forever, because really, this is all he ever needs, just the two of them. Like it always is.

Morty's shaking so much, he almost misses the light touch of fingers on his back. He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to admit how nice it feels, how warm and gentle the hand is as it slowly moves to his shoulders. He knows Rick will never change, isn't sure what this gesture is supposed to mean. His fingers can't seem to pry the cap from the flask, so he feebly shakes it, decides he doesn't want it anyway. The coat is starting to slip off; Morty tries to grab it, but Rick's palm is pressing against the nape of his neck, and oh, it feels so much better without the fabric between them. He mumbles something then, something so stupid it's forgotten instantly. There are never any words to describe the two of them, nothing fitting enough for whatever they are to each other. So Morty keeps them to himself. He hunches over, staring down at the tear-dampened seat, as Rick's hand glides along the bare flesh of his arm. Morty thinks he must be reaching for his flask—of course that would be the obvious explanation—but is surprised when he gently pries it from his grasp and lets it fall to the floor, is even more surprised when Rick laces their fingers together. This can't be anything but a sick joke, another bruise on his heart. But Morty doesn't care, wouldn't care if he woke tomorrow and Rick was the same Rick, and Morty was the same Morty. And there are never any words, but they never needed words anyway, so Morty takes Rick's hand, brings the calloused fingers to his lips and kisses them.

Rick's fucked up too many times before, already knows he's going to fuck up again, so why even try to fight it? He grabs the collar of Morty's shirt with his other hand, pulls a bit too roughly, but only gets a small whimper of resistance as he tugs him onto his lap. Rick doesn't think twice before threading his fingers through the kid's curls and crushing their mouths together. He doesn't care who or what is going to hurt afterwards, because _right now,_ this is what he needs. And Morty is just as needy, balling his fists in Rick's blue shirt, pulling closer, eagerly opening up for his tongue. Rick is relieved that the boy doesn't turn away at the bitter taste of whiskey and self-loathing on the older man's lips, because without Morty, what does he have left? Their kisses are wet and sloppy, because Rick is an old drunk and Morty is just too young to have had much experience kissing dirty, drunken old men. But Morty isn't bothered by any of it—not the tears evaporating from their cheeks, or the clammy hands creeping beneath his shirt, or the press of skin on skin where their clothing rides up, or even how Rick seems determined to claim his last breath. He seals their mouths tighter, sucks on the other's tongue, tries to swallow all of Rick's sorrows because Rick can't do it alone—shouldn't _have_ to do it alone—and Morty knows he's strong enough to bear the weight without suffocating. _Because this world wants nothing more than to tear them apart_. It's a cruel universe that doesn't understand their desires and agonies. One that's made them into the wretched human beings they are now, moaning and growling, clinging to each other like there's no Earth below, no tomorrow. And when tomorrow does come, they'll still be here, sinking teeth into flesh, biting the things unfamiliar to them, breaking themselves so they'll have something to put back together, because they have no better methods, no words to ease the pain, no one to depend on but themselves. They're all that's left in the world. And day in and day out, they're just doing the best with what they've got.

[[end]]


End file.
